His head hurt. The sound of wind turned into a shrill, ringing whine. The scent of sea was overpowering, scraping his nostrils dry. He felt dizzy, nauseous. It was hard to think.
Well, of course it is. You haven’t had a drink in. . in. .
“That can’t be healthy,” he whispered. “Where’d I leave my drink? Back in there?”
Don’t go back in there, stupid! She’s still in there! You can’t look at her again.
“So, what? Kill her, then?”
He looked down at his wrist, the heavy leather glove upon it. He could feel the blade, hidden and coiled upon the spring behind the thick leather. Just a twitch, he thought, and it would come singing out, a short, staccato song that ended in a red note.
Did you already forget who is in there?
The image of her smile flashed through his head. Too broad, too excited, too bereft of hatred. She was supposed to hate. She was supposed to curse. She wasn’t supposed to smile and this wasn’t supposed to be this hard.
Not at all this hard. She’s a woman. . well, in theory. You’re good with women, right? You can’t not be good with women! You’ll ruin the group dynamics! What else are you good at?
“Killing.”
NO! Women! Women are easy for you! Things don’t get harder around women!
He chuckled inadvertently. “That’s funny.”
Yeah, I just got that. Remember that for later because-STOP TALKING TO YOURSELF.
A reasonable idea for a reasonable man, the kind of man he ought to be. A reasonable man would be able to see the problem: that the drink only soothed thoughts that he shouldn’t be drinking away; that confronting those thoughts that tormented, those thoughts that returned to him when a woman smiled at him that way, when a woman confronted him as he had been confronted once before, was the only sound philosophy.
Reasonable. Denaos was a reasonable man without philosophy or drink to turn to. And so, he turned to blame.
Women, he told himself. It was the women causing his trouble.
Might be the chronic drinking, actually, his conscience replied.
No. He wasn’t ready to face that.
It was that one woman, the priestess, who had nearly died. She had caused the whole thing. He had stood over her, cried over her, like he had done before. And that led to the memories, the waking nightmares, like he had had before. That led to the drink, which led to Teji, which led to netherlings, which led to Xhai, which led to her smiling with a broad smile that didn’t hate him or mildly loathe him and told him he was a good man.
Like he had seen before.
Always before.
That’s it, you know, his conscience whispered. This is a sign. This is an omen from Silf.
“No, not yet.”
You’re already stinking drunk. You’ve been drunk since this morning and you’re still thinking about this.
“It is obscenely rude to be bringing this up now. I haven’t had enough to-”
There won’t ever be enough. Not enough to change the truth.
“Truth is subjective.”
You killed her.
“Truth is-” His sentence was cut off in a hacking cough.
You opened her throat.
He tried to respond, tried to reply. The coughing tore his throat apart. The air was too clean out here, too fragrant. He needed stale, he needed stench.
You killed them all.
He fell to his knees. Why was the air so damn clean? Didn’t anyone drink today?
You’re going to hell.
He inhaled sharply, ragged knives in his throat, jagged shards in his lungs. It hurt to breathe. Hurt to think. He shut his eyes tight as he tried to regain his breath.
It was so bright out here. He belonged in a bottle, in something dank and dark that would prepare him nicely for the blackness he was going to.
And that was the truth. That was what it all came down to, what all the drinking and vomiting and crying and killing had done its best.
He was going to hell.
He killed them all.
He killed her.
And, on cue, the dead woman was there when he opened his eyes. Her feet were, at least: white with a white gown wafting just above them. The sensible choice would be to watch the feet, stare at them until this nasty bout of sobriety passed and he could stare into a puddle of his own vomit again.
Sensible plan.
Reasonable man.
So he looked up. Each sight was familiar enough to be seen in his skull before he saw it in his eyes. Ghastly white robe, ghastly white body, so thin and frail. Throat opened up in a bright red blossom, blood weeping onto her garments. Thin black hair hanging around her shoulders. The worst was yet to come: her smile, her grim and wild and hateful smile.
He looked up. The dead woman was frowning at him. The dead woman hated him.
She had never done that before. Not when she was alive. Not when he had opened her throat.
She was disappointed in him.
Somehow, that was the worst part.
“Get up.”
A voice. A woman’s voice. Not the dead woman’s voice, though. Her voice was something with claws and teeth that he felt in his skin. This voice was something with air and heat, something he heard.
The boot heel that dug into his shoulder and knocked him to the earth wasn’t, but he felt it all the same.
“I’d really rather not,” he grunted, clambering to his knees. “A man who aspires to rise beyond his station is invariably struck down by the Gods.”
“If that were true, I wouldn’t be here looking down at you right now.”
Asper’s voice was cold. Her stare was colder. It was almost refreshing. The air was a little staler around her, possibly due to the palpable bitterness that emanated from her.
Looking into her eyes quickly quashed any sense of refreshment. Something was boiling behind her mouth, twisted into a sharp knife of a frown.
Resentment, maybe: for having arrived too late to save her the nights before, too late to have saved her from what had happened to her. Scorn, maybe: for having seen what he’d seen that he, nor anyone, was ever meant to. A face on fire, a body engulfed, an arm pulsating like a hungry thing.
Or, much more likely, hatred: for having known what had been done to her, for having known what hell she carried in her arm, and for having not so much as looked at her since it had happened.
Or maybe it was just spit?
“What have you learned?” she asked.
“About?”
She stared at him, unblinking. He sighed, rubbed his temples.
“Not a tremendous lot,” he said. “It’s not as though it should come as a colossal surprise, really. I’m sure the vast majority of her is bone-”
“Muscle,” Asper said. “Over half.”
“Whatever. The point is that getting information from her is proving. .”
Unnerving? Slightly emasculating? A little arousing in the same way that it sort of makes you want to cry?
“Difficult,” he said. “If she even knows anything, she won’t tell me anything.” He glanced to another nearby hut. “Dreadaeleon might be able to coerce her, or-”
“Or Bralston?” she asked, thrusting the question at him.
“Or Gariath,” Denaos said. He narrowed his eyes upon the hut. “I don’t like the look of the Djaalman. Too shifty.”
“You’re in a poor position to comment.”
“And a good position to observe. The man’s too. . probey.”
“Probey.”
“Probish. Probesque. He’s always staring at us.”
“He’s staring at you. He stares at no one but you.” She smiled blackly. “Watch your back, lest he try to probe you more attentively.” She wiggled her fingers. “Electric touch.”